


you don't have to say i love you to say i love you

by cresswell



Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Blindness, Could Be Canon, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, literally just so much kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:23:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresswell/pseuds/cresswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He opens his mouth, wanting to ask her what she’s doing, or tell her her skin is very soft, or say he likes this. But then he smooths his hands over the fabric covering her thighs, and all he can ask is: “Cress... are you still wearing your ball gown?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't have to say i love you to say i love you

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO i started this in june aka before winter came out, so keep in mind that it was canon compliant at the time, but maybe not so much now that the series is over. specifically this takes place the same night that cress ends on, so the same day cress and thorne talk about their kiss on the rampion. this fic is nothing but fluff and butterflies and me sating my need for cresswell. ANYway i hope you enjoy because i loved writing this!

It’s sometime after three a.m. when Thorne ambles into the kitchen, Cress leading him carefully around furniture and supplies. He listens for the telltale sound of Cinder’s metal foot, or Wolf’s heavy footfalls, but all he hears is the soft pitter-patter of Cress’s bare feet. She drops his hand in the middle of the kitchen, and a moment later he hears her hopping onto the counter, her heels knocking against cabinets. “The table’s to your left,” she says softly.

“Thanks.” Thorne skims his hand through the air until he feels the back of a chair, and then he pulls it back and carefully lowers himself own into it. He heaves a sigh. Every action feels risky and dangerous like this. It’s gotten easier, but he’s still not accustomed to it.

He hears Cress humming quietly, and he smiles. It seems like she can’t go very long without making some sort of soft noise. Like a bird or a cat. Wolf can’t sit still, Cinder can’t have idle hands, and Cress can’t stand silence.

“What’s your favorite kind of music?” He asks. With all her access to the internet, he doubts it’s something very recent.

Cress hums, this time in contemplation, and says, “Well, I like stuff from decades ago.”

_Nailed it,_ he thinks.

“I like opera,” she admits, sounding embarrassed about it. “And music in other languages, because then all you can really focus on is the emotion.”

“You have a beautiful voice,” Thorne tells her, thinking about that day when she’d been singing in the bath.

Cress sounds pleased and flustered and small. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

She sounds like she’s joking-- or trying to, at least-- but it makes him suck in a breath anyway. He hears Cress knock her heel against the cupboard anxiously, rhythmically rattling its contents. Thorne hates that she gets like this-- worried and self-conscious and doubtful-- and he leans back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs. “No,” he says, matching the soft tone Cress always seems to carry with her. “Just you.”

There’s a moment of silence in which he thinks she must be hiding behind her hair, quiet and unsure. But a second later, he hears the whisper of her skirt sliding off the counter, followed by the sound of her feet landing on the floor. He hears her footsteps, soft, coming towards him, and then stopping suddenly. He can’t tell where she is, and he opens his mouth to ask--

\--and then abruptly snaps it shut, because then he has a lap full of Cress. He hears the crinkling of her dress as it gets rucked up around her thighs; feels the silky skin of her legs beneath his hands. His breath feels stuck in his throat, but he realizes he should probably say something. He opens his mouth, wanting to ask her what she’s doing, or tell her her skin is very soft, or say he likes this. But then he smooths his hands over the fabric covering her thighs, and all he can ask is: “Cress... are you still wearing your ball gown?”

There’s a beat of silence that ends when Cress lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Um... maybe?”

“You’ll get it all wrinkled,” Thorne replies, trying to still his hands so he doesn’t burn himself out on touching her. “Especially like this.”

“I don’t mind,” Cress says softly. Thorne swallows hard, having to part his lips to breathe, and Cress lays her little hands over his. “And I don’t really think you do, either.”

Holy--  _who is this version of Cress?_ To his horror, he feels his cheeks warm up. Ducking his head, he says, “I wish I could see you in it.”

“I do too,” she says, and threads her fingers through his. Something about it feels strangely intimate, with her sweet scent filling his nose and her thighs bracketing his hips and her pulse beating wildly against his fingertips. She strokes her fingertips over the crooks of his hands, the bones in his wrists, and says, “Which room are you staying in?”

Thorne chokes. “Cress, darling, I think you’re wonderful and this is a very nice turn of events, but I don’t think--”

“No,” she cuts in, laughing lightly, and Thorne feels some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “No, no, no, not that. But I have an idea.”

Thorne cocks an eyebrow. “An idea?”

“Yes.” She’s close enough that he can hear her hair moving against her collar as she nods. “A way for you to see me.”

_I can see you just fine,_ he wants to say, but then Cress is slipping off his lap and he feels himself being led away, wordless and enamored and anxious, suddenly worrying that he forgot to brush his teeth, or comb his hair, or tidy up his room. But then he remembers that it doesn’t matter, that this is _Cress_ , and she saw him sunburned and grimy and dead on his feet, and she still wanted to kiss him. The thought is strangely uplifting.

Cress stops them and taps on his shoulders lightly, something he knows means he should sit. He lowers himself down, feeling himself land on a mattress, and again, he swallows hard. He’s been in plenty of girls’ beds before. Too many to count.

But this one _matters_.

He hears Cress sit down beside him, her tiny frame barely making a dip in the mattress, and reaches blindly for her hand. She slides their palms together, her skin still sun-weathered from the Sahara, and he turns towards her. “Whatever you’re thinking or planning, I want to make sure you know that it’s not necessary. Do you understand? I like you perfectly fine just like this.” He touches his fingers to her face, dancing them around until he can feel her lips. She’s smiling. “What?”

“You’re very sweet,” Cress says, and he hears the smile in her voice. “And thoughtful. And kind. And if that doesn’t sound like a hero, I don’t know what does.”

Thorne drops his head back, letting out a groan. Cress laughs. “Ugh, Cress, not this again.”

Her laugh is such a magnetic sound, and he can’t help but lean in towards her, like it’ll make the sound last longer. She touches his cheek, smoothing her fingers along the stubble on his jaw. He hears her swallow. “You’re very handsome, Captain,” she says, her voice unsteady and small.

“Thorne,” he corrects, going very still under her touch.

“Thorne,” she agrees, and then her fingers wiggle their way beneath his bandana, lifting it up and off and away. “There. Much better.”

His mouth feels dry and his throat feels raw and he feels utterly vulnerable and exposed, and Cress keeps touching his face, and he feels like he could pass out or die, but it would be such a good way to go. He swallows hard, aiming his gaze where he imagines her face is. Cress’s hands brush over his lips, and he has never felt so lightheaded. “Thorne? You still here?”

“I’m still here,” he says, his voice coming out intimate and quiet. “Trust me, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

He can’t see her, but he imagines she’s smiling at that. He hears the sound of her dress rustling again, and he reaches out instinctively, his hands coming to slide up her waist. She climbs into his lap again, pressed closer now that they’re alone and quiet, and touches his hands lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, and he’s going for cocky, but instead winds up with breathless and nervous, like he’s a teenager all over again. _Aces_. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Cress’s breath hitches. “Oh?”

Thorne nods, fumbling for her hands. When he finds them, he drags them up to his chest, pressing her palms over his pounding heart. “See?”

He feels too warm, like Iko saying _I’m overheating!_ He can tell his face is red and that he’s leaning unabashedly into her space, and he really hopes that Cress gets the message, because he doesn’t want to try going in for a kiss and then ending up with his lips on her chin.

Not that he’d _mind_ kissing her chin. Or any part of her, really. Because he wouldn’t.

Before he has another chance to make a fool of himself by trying to be cool and cocky, he feels Cress’s hand slide up against his jaw, tilting his face up the tiniest bit. He feels her breath on his face, then her nose bumping against his, and then, finally, he feels her lips press down on his own.

His response is immediate: he surges up into her, his hand sliding up the side of her neck to curl in the ends of her choppy hair. He’s almost embarrassed about how enthusiastic he is, but then he remembers that this is _Cress_ , this is the girl he can’t get out of his head, and he lets himself get lost in the feel of her soft lips on his.

She’s a good kisser. She’s shy about it, like she is with everything, but her lips are soft and they part his to pull his bottom lip between her teeth. He thinks he’s going to combust.

She pulls her lips off his for a moment, and they breathe heavily against each other, Cress’s arms looped around his neck. “I want you to see me in my dress,” she breathes, her voice quiet, and before Thorne can ask what she means, she takes his hand in her own and slides it up her thigh.

Thorne chokes on nothing, his palm smoothing over the fabric of her dress, teasing the hem to feel the soft skin of her thigh. “Aces, Cress.”

She kisses him again, the shape of her smile against his mouth, and flutters her fingers down the buttons on his shirt-- not undoing them, not yet. Just knowing that she _can_.

Thorne slides his hands up her thighs and to her waist, feeling the fabric grow fitted and silky. He counts her ribs, dancing his fingers along her sides, and she giggles and squirms, swatting his hands away. “I’m ticklish.”

Thorne cocks an eyebrow, grinning. “Really?”

Cress shrieks as Thorne launches a full-force tickle attack, making her flail and fall back on the bed, her legs kicking at him. He dodges her easily and pins her down, grinning against her cheek while she squirms and laughs and curls her fingers in his shirt.

“ _You_ , Captain Thorne,” she gasps out against his neck, making him shiver with want, “are quite evil.”

He presses his smile against her temple. “I thought I was a hero.”

She makes a noncommittal sound and he laughs, sliding his hands up the soft skin on her arms until he can tangle their fingers together. Cress goes still and quiet beneath him, and a moment later she’s kissing him again, having to strain her neck awkwardly to do so. He curves his arm behind her neck so she has a sort of cushion, and she sighs happily against his mouth, skating her fingers along his chest.

He does not know how he is going to make it out of this bed alive.

He can feel her hair between his fingers and her skin beneath his lips and the pounding of her heart against his own, and her knee knocks against his hip, and she tilts her head so his lips slide down her neck, and everything is impossibly beautiful. She curls her fingers around the hem of his shirt, her hands warm against his stomach, and he presses kisses to her neck, his nose bumping against her jaw. 

He loves her-- _stars_ , does he love her. He hadn’t even known he knew the meaning of the word.

He feels his way up her sides, her breath hitching in her chest, and beneath her skin he can feel the small protrusion of her ribs, the bump of her bra, the subtle swells of her breasts. Her breath is heavy and slow and he moves his fingers up the side of her neck, light as starlight, and tangles them in her hair. He tilts her face slightly until their lips slot together.

He loses himself in her so easily, their bodies lined up, touching everywhere, so intimate yet so chaste. Their lips slide together and then apart over and over and over, and all of Thorne’s thoughts turn muddled and hazy and he knows she can feel his blush against her own burning skin, but he doesn’t care. It will tell her the truth-- that he loves her. He’s not yet brave enough to say it with his voice.

“Captain,” Cress whispers, her voice breathy against his mouth.

Thorne keeps his eyes closed, his nose bumping hers, not bothering to correct her. “Hm?”

Her fingers twitch against his collarbone and he feels the hesitation in the movement. “I want you to know I...”

“I know,” Thorne says quietly, and he _does_ know, because Cress is an open book and she is full of love-- love for _him_. He turns his head into her palm, pressing a kiss to the skin. He feels his own truth burning just behind his sternum, but it’s not quite ready to come out yet, so he remains quiet as Cress squirms around, pulling the covers over her.

Thorne quirks a side of his mouth up. “Cold?”

He feels her hair move against his cheek as she nods. “And sleepy.” She yawns, as if on cue. “Do you mind if I sleep here?”

He smiles, and it probably looks ridiculous and dopey, but he can’t bring himself to care. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he pulls her close against his chest, the fine material of her dress crinkling beneath his hand. “I  wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
